


a pair of open graves

by FeoplePeel



Category: Deadwood
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Immortality, Implied Relationships, M/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: Johanna Kislingbury moved from Kansas to South Dakota in the Dirty Thirties for the Days of '76 because her daddy told her legends lived forever.She was mighty sure this weren't what he meant.





	a pair of open graves

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Angst Bingo with Pairing: Seth/Sol for the Prompt: Gaining/Losing Immortality, as assigned by Liz, my wonderful best friend who knows what I want to write before I do apparently!

 

_August 6, 1934_

_Cousin Florence,_  
_You like as well don't know me from a stranger, but you might remember my father, Douglas Kislingbury, who says you spent a childhood together in Deadwood under the care of your own father, Seth Bullock as well as your mother, Martha. Likewise to him that I mentioned, being Mister Bullock, my father passed some 14 years on. He says he was treated well and I don't imagine that disposition has left you, given your upbringing._  
_I tell you all this in the hopes that you will receive me with a similar kindness as I make the journey from my home in Lancaster to your own in Deadwood. I am eager to see you all and hope to find you in good health._  
_I remain meanwhile your family and friend,  
_ _Johanna A Kislingbury_

 

The dust had settled over South Dakota, but the money still spent in Deadwood and Lead. If she left the steer show in Kansas, where they'd only given her jobs like dressing up the girls what were only two years older or tending to the knocked up mares anyhow, she might find good work at the rodeo there.  

She made it through the hazy streets of Nebraska, hitching a ride where she could. Not many on the road were carrying an empty hitch, Mostly she rode, stopping to resupply in Columbus and Tuthill. When she reached the Black Hills, she settled against one of the trees and scrounged up some alfalfa for Blue to destroy. It was a half a day's ride to get to Lead and, from there, a short stop to Deadwood. She hadn't thought beyond that. Hadn't thought _how_ she'd get into the Days of '76, only that she would.

The men in Lead gave her a few funny looks. Nothing as obvious as in Lancaster. There they had stared at her frilled jacket and the bright hat she wore while she mucked out stalls. Looking back, penniless and covered in dust as she stood now, she can't rightly blame them. Showboating in shit, s'all it was.

She was being harassed about letting her horse drink outside of the livery, owner kept upping the price and she could  _tell_  she was being hustled.

"Leave off her, Ted," a man said from behind her. "You can put what else you want for the water off my tab and I'll have her stay at my spot for the night."

The man, _Ted_ , backed off with a grumble and took a hefty sum of her remaining money with him.

"Thanks, I suppose," she threw Blue's lead across the worn log at his shoulder and led his muzzle down to drink.

"Didn't mean to speak for you, ma'am," the man who had interceded on her behalf had been in the middle of brushing, looked like. "My stable is small, and a little way's out, but cheaper for it."

"More pleasant company too, I'll wager," she said, looking in the direction where Ted had gone.

"That's a matter of opinion," he said, even-handed. He was handsome in an unapproachable way; uncomfortable like he was trying too hard to hold a pleasant expression. Didn't seem dangerous though, just awkward as hell, which might have been related to the stuffy-looking waistcoat and undershirt he was wearing. He motioned to Blue. "What's his name?"

"Blue," she patted the withers of her stallion and he shook his head with a huff. "Blue Horizon, like the song."

"Don't think I've heard it." When he went back to brushing, he eased up a bit. She didn't think she'd ever seen anyone so fancy look so content to be covered in dirt. "You stopping over or staying the night in Lead? I'll put up Blue, either way."

"Don't know yet," she admitted, pleased he'd called her horse by name. "Got family in Deadwood, but some so far removed you might know me better."

"That's a stretch, seeings as I don't even know your name."

"It's Johanna," she held out a hand. He paused in his brushing to lift his other hand and meet hers. Turned proper to face her and all.

"Seth."

"Had an uncle with that name," she said when they dropped hands. "Must be popular around here."

"Must be," he dropped his brush into the nearest bucket and slapped his hands together to little effect. Dust was dust was dust now. "Trolley's don't run for another hour still, if you want to grab some breakfast."

"How far out you say your spot was?"

"Thirty minutes out on the road between here and Deadwood."

"You do a good enough job looking after Blue until I get back in the next ten and I'll let you walk me that far," she tipped back her hat. It used to be red but it was a dark brown now and probably better-looking for it.

"I can do that," he squinted up at her from where he sat cleaning off his horse's shoe.

Breakfast was a sad bowl of porridge. Could've paid an extra nickle for cinnamon, but she'd rather save it for whoever she needed to bribe at the rodeo. When she made it back to the livery, Seth was waiting with both leads in one hand, and a third in the other for a different horse that must also be his. He looked calm and put together in a way that stood out in the middle of a crowd like a bird or, more unnerving, a lawman. She had a queer feeling, as she approached, that he had been watching her the whole time. Little wonder he lived away from people.

The road to Deadwood was well-worn and she could see the trolley someways off. What must have been halfway, as it had been near half an hour, Seth gave a swat the back of the smaller of his horses, the mare, and he took off to a small spot in the distance.

"My lodgings," he explained.

Indeed, the man hadn't lied to her. From here she could make out the border of Lead and Deadwood, an equal distance now in either direction. "I think I can make it the rest of the way."

"If'n you  _want_  to take the horse...," Seth said slowly.

Johanna chewed her lip, keeping her eyes on Deadwood.

"I'm more'n willing to give you an excuse to escape. I charge for feed only."

"And if I spend the night there?"

"He'll be taken care of, no extra charge."

She reckoned that was worth it, if the man was worth his word. He had been so far. She handed him Blue's lead. "Wish me luck."

* * *

Aunt Martha was pleasant, trying to host from her chair as Florence shot Johanna a look that she interpreted as, _Mothers, what can you do?_

They had a comfortable lunch where they asked after her family since her father's passing, then offered to tour her around the town and put her up in the Bullock hotel without charge if she wished.

It was only then, seeing how many people lined the streets, she realized how much she had inadvertently asked of the family.

"I've a place in stay in Lead for the night," she said, keeping a tight rein on her accent. These people were well-mannered. Not that she weren't, er, wasn't. She just didn't know all the ins-and-outs of talking right...proper.

Florence left them at the door of the hotel to take care of the children and Martha was now cradling Johanna's elbow, leading her down the hall of the hotel past portrait after portrait.

"You would have liked Jane," Martha said and Johanna tried not to be bored. "She could ride a horse when she put a proper thought to it. She had some great fun telling stories at Buffalo Bill's but I think she would have preferred the Days of '76."

"That would have been a sight," Johanna hummed in agreement. She stopped a little short at the next picture and her companion must have noticed because she gave her a curious look. Her eyes rested on the portrait Johanna had caught sight of and Martha's expression grew solemn.

"My husband Seth, you know," she pointed to the man in the front and it took a great effort to keep from saying she _did_ know him, for they had only met that morning. Her finger moved an inch to the left, to a smaller man. "Our dear friend, Sol Star, who helped him build this hotel and our life here, in fact. Passed on two years before your uncle."

"It's a beautiful hotel, Aunt Martha," Johanna eventually managed around her dry throat. Martha looked pleased. "I'm sorry for your losses."

Martha led her farther down the hall, to keep them moving or to escape the faces in the photograph, Johanna didn't know. "I've had enough time to grieve. I'll admit I've given it some thought, that the loss of such a long companionship must have worn on my husband. That he could leave me to take care of the children and this place, so he could keep Sol company, it gives me comfort." She took a breath through her nostrils and smiled in a way that wrinkled her eyes. "Makes me feel stronger than I might otherwise."

Johanna smiled back, feeling watery in her gut. She was glad she'd made her excuses to leave for the night. She'd heard rumors of ghosts. Knew the real ones was out in the space between towns, waiting for her, but the weight of it felt worse in this place.

She bought salt and another case of bullets from the general store on the road out of Deadwood anyway.

* * *

The first thing Johanna did when she returned was check on Blue. She found the horse well-tended, as promised, clean as possible out here and happy-seeming. It dampened her panic, somewhat, eased her irritation. It was easier to call it irritation, anger, and such things, because the alternative was _fear_  and she was too old to be afraid of boogeymen.

The house connected to the barn was a small one, cozy, and clearly well-kept. It didn't look like a man's home. But it must have been because Seth was tending to the fire, waistcoat removed and shirt to his elbows like a man very much at home.

She knew Marshall Seth Bullock died a little over a decade ago but there he was, she thought, age 85 looking like the picture back in the hotel lobby of the Bullock Hotel. Johanna raised her gun to the level of his shoulder.

"I don't mean to cause no sort of agitation, but I've seen a photograph of my uncle, Seth Bullock, and the thought's come up on me that you might be a demon, sir."

"I'm some relation," Seth looked up slowly from the fire, clearly a little startled. The dead shouldn't look so caught out by the living, Johanna thought. "To Seth Bullock, not a demon."

"You ain't his son," She cocked her gun. Stanley had died in the last fire, and if he hadn't he ought look a mite older. "Never met a child look so much like his Pa cause me such a fright. And if you are Stanley Bullock, I reckon it's a different conversation we oughta be having, one we oughta rope your Mama in on."

Seth's hands were raised in surrender. "I ain't Stan. And I ain't a demon."

"You're Seth Bullock?"

He nodded, slowly lowering his arms. His skin was as dirt-drenched as her, chapped lips and calloused fingers. She lowered her gun by inches, remembering Blue and the short walk from Lead to Deadwood.

"You're Douglas' daughter," he appeared to struggle for a moment. "Only ever called you Jo in his letters."

"I am." She sat in a chair some distance from him, her gun against her thigh. "Died when I was knee-high. Ma moved us out to Kansas."

"Sorry we lost touch. Your Pa was a good man. Martha and I looked after him when your grandfather was in the Arctic, on an expedition."

"He told stories about this place," she nodded. "What kind of ghost takes care of horses?"

"A tired one," his smile was fleeting, and sad.

"God shouldn't have brought you back with a body that can still get tired, and hungry, and all."

"You think God did this?"

"Devil don't have power over life, sir," she crossed her arms, obstinate. She hadn't read much of the Good Book, but she felt like she had that bit right.

"It's not like my spirit was raised," he said, and she'd never seen anyone give her a look like that; something like anger trapped in a stone. "I crawled out of the ground like a damn plant."

"I think I'd like to see that."

* * *

The grave was nothing special. She'd hoped for more of a mark from where he'd come up, but it had been fifteen years and he'd likely covered his tracks.

"You want to go into town?" She kicked at the dirt and coughed when more of the topsoil than she wanted came up to meet her.

"Can't," his tone was clipped.

"S'not like people would recognize you," she turned to look at a few of the other graves. She knew one of these was Wild Bill's, but it felt rude to ask outright.

"My wife might," the grin Seth gave her was something mischievous. He didn't seem like a light-hearted sort of dead fellow. She didn't expect him to find the humor of things, which was a shame. He had a nice, warm smile.

"Reckon I understand why you can't go _there_ , must be like an open tomb. What's that," she snapped her fingers. "A mausoleum."

Seth was quiet, kneeling in front of a grave. _Stanley_ , it read. She turned away, feeling some stirring of guilt at her earlier accusations.

They were quiet on the walk back to Seth's home.

"Aunt Martha won't come check on this place?" she asked when they arrived, wiping her boots on the threshold. "I know it's a ways out for her, but what if she finds out? It's gotta be a pain."

"This was Sol's house, gifted to me when...," Seth let the sentence hand, stabbing at the fire with brutal force, enough to send a spark flying back at him. "He never married. Told Martha I sold it seventeen years back, but I just...kept it. Damned if I know why."

She took in the house again and, knowing what she knew now, it was a grave of a different sort (mausoleum, her mind provided, unhelpful). Old hats and boots too small for Bullock, surely, and pictures of a family that weren't his. Most damning was a letter, worn round the edges and unfinished from a glance, addressed to Seth along with a list of flowery adjectives she felt too embarrassed to finish reading.

The place was so damned clean because Bullock hadn't wanted to put a thing out of place after the man who lived here had left it. Living with another kind of ghost, she thought with a shudder, and stared out the window in the direction she guessed the cemetery lay. "Is he out there?"

He shook his head, deflated somewhat. "Missouri. Had folks that way."

"We should go," she leaned against the windowsill.

"I have family here still, whether they know me or not. And you have a rodeo to get to."

"There are rodeos in Missouri," she shrugged. "An' I'm your family, Uncle Seth."

He stared at her until he must’ve realized she weren’t gonna let up. "Well, I might do."

* * *

They left after the tenth annual Days of ‘76, where Johanna didn’t get to ride at all, but proudly took a beating and a ribbon for steer wrestling.

They followed a cloud of black dust like dragon’s breath to St. Louis. Despite that, Sol's grave was decent and well-maintained. Johanna would say as much, pay proper respects and all, if she weren't busy keeping an eye out while her Uncle dug into the ground with a newly purchased shovel.

Graverobbing with a dead man; she wondered how that kind of sin stacked.

She didn't know what he'd been expecting to find when he finished but by his expression, an empty grave wasn't it.

"I can't explain it," Seth wiped his brow with the back of his hand and threw the shovel away from hisself some distance. His face was bunched tightly and, for an uncomfortable moment, Johanna thought he might cry. She'd seen men cry, when they was hurt bad or after a tough loss, but men like Bullock didn't make a habit of it. "Don't make no damn sense."

"Might could…,” she started slowly, unsure of what to say in the face of whatever he was feeling. Grief, relief, anger, she couldn’t know. “Might be he woke up and found some fine magic to bring you back, Uncle Seth.”

He stared at her like _she_ was the one what dug a ditch under her friend’s tombstone not minutes past. “Sol wouldn’t. Never believed in that sort of...this.”

“Mightn’t he start if he crawled out of the ground and saw Missouri sky? _I_ sure as shit would,” she scoffed. Seth was silent beside her, bending over to feel around for his shovel. "...well? What are you moping for, you gotta find him don't you?"

"I'm going back to Deadwood," he said, righting himself. “If he didn't know to find me there then...he don't wanna be found."

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing and helped him refill the grave.

* * *

True to his word, Seth went home, and Johanna stopped off in Nebraska along the way. They spent ten years this way, exchanging letters when Aunt Martha passed and a few phone calls when she finally convinced him to wire one into Sol’s house. He had gotten bolder in his dotage, shaving his mustache, changing his name, going into Deadwood proper to see how his daughter fared. Florence was well, he always said, and she could tell he was smiling.

They talked about Sol sometimes, too, though rarely. Mostly Seth’d talk about what it was like being partners, shaping the land to what it was and, with some needling, life before Deadwood. She knew he hadn’t been looking for Mister Star, and she had near put him, the living him, out of mind when she finally met him.

He never came to a show or bought any steer from her; would’ve made things simple. No, he was helping some young woman in the area with a clothing business. Having heard the stories, it seemed like a very Sol thing to do.

“Mister Star?”

He didn’t quite start in the chair where he sat, mending a fine-looking hat, but when he looked up he wasn’t smiling. “I’m sorry. I believe you have me mistaken for someone else.”

At least this one weren’t so stupid to keep going by his given name, was her first thought. Her second was that she’d recognize that damned mustache on anyone, even after a decade.

"My name is Johanna Kislingbury, I'm Seth Bullock’s niece." She held out a hand and he slowly raised his own. His expression, she noted with a trace of humor, mirrored Seth’s when held at gunpoint. " _I_  believe you have a letter to finish writing."


End file.
